


Ravenous

by stratumgermanitivum



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Forced Orgasm, Graphic Description, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Paralysis, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 16:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19177219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum
Summary: There are bandages across Will’s skin, nicks and scars. Thick guaze wraps around his shoulder where Hannibal removed the bullet. Will’s stomach, though, is bared, that thick raised slice still pink, freshly healed. Hannibal’s fingers trace delicately over it, touch muted, nerve endings irrevocably damaged. Will has the sudden horrified realization that Hannibal may not wait until dawn to devour him. Why wait, when Will is helpless as-is?“I have missed you,” Hannibal says again, softer this time. His voice is barely more than a whisper, and something soft has overtaken his eyes, something aching and…





	Ravenous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeyouimagined](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeyouimagined/gifts).



> WARNING: The following contains graphic descriptions of rape. It is not meant to be a representation of appropriate real-life behaviors and should not be imitated. All characters and events are entirely fictional, and no real people were harmed in the writing of this fic.

The drugs Cordell had given him were _good_ , Will has to give him that. Mason Verger certainly spared no expense in his quest to torture and skin Will alive. By the time Hannibal pulls him out of the car and carries Will up the steps to his house, Will is still completely paralyzed. He can’t even get his _fingers_ to twitch. Hannibal has to cradle Will’s head against his shoulder like Will is an oversized infant, and the most horrifying part is that he does it with the same level of tenderness as might be expected for one.

Hannibal tucks him into his bed, sheets turned down. No dogs; Will had them boarded when he set off across the sea, paid for with ‘sorry we locked you in a mental hospital’ money. His home feels empty without them, over-sized and drowning in shadows. Hannibal fusses with the dresser, pulling out a clean t-shirt and boxers for Will to sleep in. Will cannot make enough noise to say he doesn’t want them, to explain how _tired_ he is of being maneuvered and stripped and dressed like a life-size Barbie doll. He doesn’t think it would matter anyway. He was lucid enough to speak, back in Italy, and Hannibal tried to eat him regardless.

Hannibal had dressed him in the closest things at hand when they left the farm, and now he undoes each button with careful fingers. Will huffs out an uncomfortable breath, the closest thing to irritation he can manage, and to his surprise, Hannibal smiles.

“I have missed you, Will,” He says, cupping the curve of Will’s cheek in his warm hand, “Including your poor attitude.” It’s said with humor, with affection. Will is blown away by the sudden depth of feeling, startled into contemplation when Hannibal’s eyes meet his.

_It would have killed you to eat me, wouldn’t it? To wake up the next day and know I would never be, ever again._

Life is full of regret, for the both of them. Will should have run with them. Hannibal and Abigail, the three of them together in Italy. Will with Bedelia’s plane ticket.

But now, Will aches. Every moment of knowing Hannibal slices under his skin and flays him alive. In the morning, when his body is his again, Will will have to end it, again, and pray Hannibal does not devour him.

Hannibal eases the last button apart, spreading Will’s shirt wide across the planes of his chest… And stops.

There are bandages across Will’s skin, nicks and scars. Thick gauze wraps around his shoulder where Hannibal removed the bullet. Will’s stomach, though, is bared, that thick raised slice still pink, freshly healed. Hannibal’s fingers trace delicately over it, touch muted, nerve endings irrevocably damaged. Will has the sudden horrified realization that Hannibal may not wait until dawn to devour him. Why wait, when Will is helpless as-is?

“I have missed you,” Hannibal says again, softer this time. His voice is barely more than a whisper, and something soft has overtaken his eyes, something aching and…

Hannibal slides Will’s shirt off his shoulders in careful motions, gentle around the bullet wound, but it isn’t until he goes for Will’s pants that Will recognizes the look.

Has Hannibal always looked at him with such yearning in his eyes? Such devastated awe? Surely not, surely Will would have recognized it, would have _done_ something.

Hannibal tilts his head, tugs Will’s pants and underwear down, over his feet. Socks and shoes on the floor. He does not reach for Will’s sleep clothes. He stands, towering over Will. Will attempts to tilt his head to better see his intent, but his body does not respond. His head lolls sideways on his pillow because gravity requires it, and anything else is just wishful thinking.

Hannibal’s next breath is a shaking inhale. “I should have brought you with me,” He says, “I should have carried you out, if I had to. You and your stubbornness, your desperate clinging to a morality you never cared for.” He sounds almost angry. The bed dips beside Will’s hips, and Will’s heart beats a frantic staccato. Will is chilled, his house left unheated while he voyaged across the sea. Goosebumps pebble across his skin, and Hannibal traces his palm over them.

“Not again,” Hannibal whispers, and rolls Will over onto his stomach.

Will’s face presses deep into the pillows. He draws in a mangled breath, the pillowcase clutching to his nose and mouth. He chokes on it, smothered in his own scent. Hands trace over his back, fingernails scratching lightly over his shoulder blades. Another attempt at a breath strangles itself in cotton. Will’s face is too warm, his exhalations heating up the pillow beneath him. He can barely feel the touch that lingers over his hips, as his head begins to swim.

Horrified, Will realizes he’s going to suffocate in his own bedding, unable to even plead. He manages half a syllable, a muffled, guttural ‘ _unh.’_

Hannibal’s hand grips his chin, tilts his head properly on the pillow. Will gasps as much as he is able, his tongue thick in his mouth. Hannibal’s hand trails down to his throat, resting over the frantic rise and fall of Will’s breathing.

“Shhh,” Hannibal hums against Will’s hair. There is a rustling sound, and then he flattens out against Will’s back. Will can feel the thick thatch of Hannibal’s chest hair against his spine, and it dawns on him, slower than it should, what intention had flooded Hannibal’s eyes.

“Nnn!”

Hannibal hushes him again, presses soft lips to Will’s cheek. “I shouldn’t have left you. I should not have allowed you to separate from me.”

Hannibal shifts, the button of his pants tugging lightly against Will’s sensitive skin. Hannibal arches up off of his hips, and Will can hear the slick sound of Hannibal wetting his own fingers.

The paralysis is both a blessing and a curse. Will cannot buck Hannibal off of him, but nor can he tense. Hannibal’s thick fingers spear him open, dampened with a scarce amount of saliva. Will chokes.

“How many times,” Hannibal whispers against his cheek, “I imagined you spread out, just like this. I ached for you.”

Two fingers spread wide, and now it is Will who is aching. His fingers twitch, helpless little motions that are more reflex than control. Hannibal stretches him in slow, measured thrusts, and Will cannot even tremble.

“Did you, Will? Did you wonder?”

Will had. Before the BSHCI, and again, after Randall Tier. He would sit across From Hannibal, in his office, or his dining room, and imagine hands made for more than just killing. A fit of passion – and there _would_ be passion, Hannibal would be nothing if not considerate and unmatched in anything he chose to do. He had imagined choking the life from Hannibal while Hannibal clenched around his cock.

Later, in his little boat on the Atlantic, his fantasies had twisted more towards domesticity. Abigail off to bed, the two of them in front of a fire. But Hannibal had always seemed like something out of reach, something untouchable.

Will can feel him now, hard and thick through the fabric of his pants, his erection pressed to Will’s calf as he presses a kiss to the base of Will’s spine.

“You open so beautifully for me,” Hannibal says, and adds another finger.

It was never like this, in Will’s fantasies. Never helpless at Hannibal’s hands, unable to stop him. Unable to encourage him. Will whines low and long, a sound that requires no tongue or teeth to pass on its meaning. He has never felt quite so raw, stripped of his defenses and near mindless with his distress.

Hannibal’s fingers slide out, but Will does not even have time to hope before he hears Hannibal shuck his pants.

When Will had imagined, when he had _dared_ to think, it had never been like this. Even when his fantasies had tilted towards the macabre, when Hannibal had bled out or choked beneath him, there had been something joyous in both of them. In Will’s fantasies, they both got off on it, even if, for Hannibal, it was a final little death.

There had never been a clinging dread, a moment of horrified panic. In Will’s daydreams, they had both collided willingly.

Hannibal works into him with little more than spit to ease the way. He pants into Will’s ear as if the exertion is _his_ , as if he is the one slowly crumbling beneath startled and confused fear. Will burns and aches in equal measures as Hannibal’s hips grind against his ass, slow, so slow, creating a space inside of Will inch by excruciating inch.

He _already_ had a space inside of Will, if he had only bothered to _ask_.

Will groans into the dark and chilly air. The bed warms beneath him, absorbing the heat of their bodies. Hannibal’s arms surround him, cage him, as if Will might try to roll away.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal whispers, and that is what hurts the most, that Hannibal can take the most secret of Will’s fantasies, the peaceful dream he’d never dared to want, and lay it out over this twisted intimacy.

Hannibal rests flush against him, fully seated. Will’s body welcomes him even as Will’s mind rages. There is not enough strength in his muscles to resist, to offer the slightest bit of tension as Hannibal slowly pulls back and presses back in.

Hannibal fucks him like a lover, like a husband on his wedding night. He draws sweaty curls away from Will’s face with a shaking hand, trails damp kisses down Will’s throat. It feels good, as unfair as it may seem. It feels better than good, even with the dry friction that makes every thrust a slow drag over Will’s sensitive insides. Hannibal has knowing hands, they seek out every part of Will that might make him huff or whine, unwilling pleasure building in the pit of his stomach.

Will teaches forensic psychology. He knows all about involuntary physical response, that responding is not the same as _wanting_ , but shame fills him anyway. Isn’t this exactly what he’d earned, following at Hannibal’s heels? Isn’t this where they were going the whole time?

Hannibal’s hand shifts, worming under Will’s hips to grasp his cock. Will had been horrified to realize he could maintain an erection despite his paralysis, had been trying so desperately to ignore it.

“Nnn…” Will’s protest sounds more like a welcoming whine. His face flushes with humiliation as Hannibal strokes him, slow and tender like the rolls of his hips.

“There you go,” Hannibal whispers, his voice cutting off on a moan. His hands are still trembling,  “We are conjoined, you and me. One entity. We always have been.”

Not like this, though. Never like this. Will’s fingers twitch, curling lightly against the sheets. He wants to shake his head. He wants to beg Hannibal to stop, to back away. He wants to start the night over, the week, the year, his _life_. He wants to walk into Jack’s office that very first day and kill Hannibal Lecter where he stands. He wants to go back several months ago and run away with Hannibal the night he offered it to him. Anything to avoid this, this bastardization of what they could have been, what they _should_ have been.

Will’s cock twitches in Hannibal’s grasp. Will squeezes his eyes shut tight and manages just enough energy to lift his hand. Half an inch, an inch, and then it smacks lightly onto the pillow once more.

“Shh,” Hannibal murmurs. He sprawls himself out against Will’s back, pressed tight to him in every way. “I have you, Will. It’s alright.” His thrusts loose some of their smoothness, becoming jerky little motions as he grinds into Will, closer and closer to completion. Will feels over-sensitized, forced over an edge he wants nothing to do with. Hannibal’s grip on his erection is almost too tight, but it eases Will over, has him spilling out against the sheets below with a shaky, strangled moan.

Hannibal gasps into his hair, his damp hand smearing Will’s seed against his stomach as Hannibal clutches at him, holds him close. Hannibal spills inside of him, overflowing.

Will’s fist clenches loosely in the pillowcase as Hannibal pulls out. Will feels saturated in him, Hannibal’s essence leaking out over his inner thighs.

Hannibal reaches for Will’s shoulder rolling him over. Will doesn’t try to resist; he can’t even manage to bring the pillow with him.

Hannibal’s thumb trails over Will’s cheek, through a line of tears that startles Will. He doesn’t remember when he started to cry, all he was aware of was Hannibal. Hannibal is still everywhere, still a dull, wet ache inside him.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal whispers again, leaning down to lick a stripe up Will’s damp cheek, ending with a chaste kiss at the corner of his eye. “I love you, Will,” He whispers, and cracks Will’s heart a little further.

Love. That was the emotion that lingered under veiled comments and long looks. An emotion that sent Will sailing across the sea on his own. An emotion that now wells up and bleeds melancholy and betrayal. Will shakes his head, a slow, exhausting motion.

Hannibal looks at him, his smile not quite solid, twitching at the corners. As if he is only just now realizing what he’s done to Will. Will, who lays sprawled before him, covered in their mingled release, in his own tears, in red-faced humiliation.

“It will be alright,” Hannibal tells him. “You should rest, we have a long journey ahead of us.”

“No,” Will murmurs, and it is clearer than anything else he’s said, but not enough. He wants to tell Hannibal that he isn’t going, that he wants to stay right here, in Wolf Trap, and never see or hear from Hannibal Lecter ever again. His lips and tongue are too heavy for such complex motions. Hannibal hushes him with a hand over his eyes, blocking out the light.

“Rest, Will. We can talk in the morning.”

He leaves the room, the house. Will can hear him whispering to someone on the porch, though the words come muffled and indistinct. Will flexes his toes, bends his leg slowly at the knee. His limbs will not hold him, but he’s managed to roll onto his side by the time Hannibal comes back. He’s panting with the effort, and Hannibal looks down at him with a vaguely proud little smile.

“You were told to rest,” Hannibal says, without any real heat, “I am glad to see that your stubbornness has survived Mason’s men.”

_And you_ , Will thinks at him, _it seems I am always having to survive you._

“But now is not the time for stubbornness,” Hannibal continues, rolling Will onto his back. “Now, you need to behave yourself. You’ll irritate your stitches.”

Will bristles at being told to behave, but before he can muster up even a hint of a groan, Hannibal slides a cloth over his face.

Will’s breath catches almost immediately, but not so immediate that he doesn’t catch the taste, the smell. Damp with chemicals, the cloth sinks into his nose and mouth, Hannibal’s large hand holding it firm. Will tries to hold his breath, already woozy. His hands come up to clutch at Hannibal’s wrist, shaking as he tries to dig his nails in. Hannibal resists him, his pitiful attempts to yank Hannibal’s hand away. There is no strength in his arms, his nails are useless without the force to back them up. Will’s hands drop again while he’s still holding his breath.

“Rest,” Hannibal says, utterly patient while Will’s lungs scream for oxygen, while he digs his toes into the mattress and trembles. “Rest, I’ll take care of everything.”

Will’s lungs ache. His body will not obey him. His next breath is a sob, a moment of resigned despair. The bitter scent floods him, sends a sharp pain through his skull, and then…

Nothing.

Will wakes in another bed, in another room, Hannibal pressed up behind him. He clutches Will against him, his chest rising and falling with sleep. Will stares out into the dark room, feeling the way the bed rocks with the motions of a boat. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have made it this far then you made it through _multiple_ detailed warnings and should not be surprised by the content of the fic. If you are here to complain, I have no idea what you want from me and am probably not going to pay attention, to be honest.
> 
> Everyone else, Hi! This was written in honor of me gaining 200 followers on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/stratumgermani1)! It's also a little gift for Em, who mentioned a while back that they wanted to see a fic based on what happened between Hannibal carrying Will off and Will sitting up on his own the next morning. Here you go, darling!
> 
> I think Will might honestly be more upset by the fact that he would have consented if Hannibal asked, than he is by the rape itself. Because these two people are not normal sane healthy human beings. 
> 
> Also Will totally punched him in the face after this and then they fought and then they made up and there was a weird captor bonding/stockholme thing going on. In case you were wondering.


End file.
